


Reflections by the Fireplace

by OnlyForward



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Fluff, I hate tags, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyForward/pseuds/OnlyForward
Summary: How many times can I call a piece of fanfiction a "drabble" in the description and get away with it? IT FITS EVERY TIMEJohn has moved back into 221B and reflects on life with Sherlock and Rosie
Relationships: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, John/Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	Reflections by the Fireplace

It started with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses, as many things did.

They’d both put Rosie to bed half an hour ago, Sherlock crooning a little song he’d made up (John has extracted the lyric about murder) and John tucking her in. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as John turned out the lights. 

It was bizarre, how she fell asleep, and _stayed_ asleep, all throughout the night since they had moved into 221B. When John was with Mary in their shared house in the suburbs, their little girl had never slept through the night without making one of them get up and gently talk her back into going to sleep.

As though Rosie knew this place, this flat, was truly her home. 

They sat in front of the fire, on the cold winter’s day, and chatted and laughed and talked. It was - lovely, John had realised, to be back here. Watching Sherlock fill out as they both ate three meals a day - although the Bastard could eat chips for every meal and never gain more than an ounce of fat somehow. To watch them start taking care of each other and Rosie. It was far better for his mental health than it was to pootle around that flat that had Mary written all over it, even though she was gone. _Gone, gone for good_. 

John didn’t think he’d be able to step in an aquarium ever again, and had almost thrown up when Rosie showed somewhat interest in it. It was - heartwrenching, the idea of it, and Sherlock seemed to notice that, so he enticed Rosie with going on the London Eye, instead. The picture from that day was on the mantelpiece, now, and John could look at all three of their grinning faces for the rest of his life and be happy. 

This was all he wanted. He couldn’t have been a single dad, he’d known that ever since the day after Mary died and Rosie couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ stop crying, as though she knew her mum was dead. But then, he couldn’t have found another woman he only half loved to look after his child, and no-one would want him with all his baggage.

Other than Sherlock. Sherlock, who had been there to hold shopping bags or Rosie or even _John_ , if that’s what he needed. Always a step forward, reaching for the next step ahead, more of a father than anyone could’ve expected him to be.

"We should go and see your parents soon," John murmurs, just to say something, as one of the logs crackle and jolt suddenly. Sherlock prods the fire and says nothing. "Thank them for the picture books."

Sherlock’s parents adored Rosie - there was simply no other word for it. They doted on her endlessly when they had her, and Sherlock often scowled over it. John knew, however, that he was grateful for his parents being there for his new found family however bizarre it had become. The child who wasn’t his, but really, really was. They should make that official, John is sure that Mycroft has a document somewhere.

Speaking of documents...

John makes a quick dash into one of the boxes outside his and Rosie’s room, trying to find a specific collection of papers and simultaneously attempting to not make very much noise. He’s placed his glass down on the coffee table before exiting so not to spill the expensive scotch.

"What’s that?" Sherlock queries when he comes back, for the document is folded twice in his hands and quite clearly hasn’t been touched in years. He’s getting slow, then, or just being polite by not deducing it.

"It’s my will," John says, and unfolds it.

John had never been very good at legal documents - especially not keeping them updated. In the entirety of living with Sherlock, for those two years where life was simple and dangerous and _free_ , he’d deigned not to care about it.

After all, he didn’t have much. The flat wasn’t really his, and he had no serious partner, other than the man he lived with which remained platonic. His money, what little he’d collected from the war, was shoved into a tidy bank account and would have been donated to Harry if he’d died then, which she would most likely have spent on booze.

Then Sherlock had died, and John had contemplated it. Death - and therefore the will had been removed, never updated, just staring at it. Thinking about it. There was no changes to make to it, necessarily, although he’d probably do a donation to charity instead of gifting all the money to Harry in assurance that it would go to waste.

There had been, and he was not pleased to admit it, many times where his mouth had tasted the metallic twang of the service revolver in his mouth, thinking of Sherlock and thinking of it all being over.

Sherlock himself hadn’t had a will - or if he had, then it had been taken care of. Mycroft had swept in and seemed to handle all the legal affairs, which makes perfect sense now considering he was actually alive the whole time. The ‘will’ if there was one, was just as much a ruse as the funeral had been. Mycroft had basically come by the flat and said that John could have whatever he wanted and that expenses over the flat were paid for.

He’d been surprised by Mycroft’s kindness, but on reflection it had probably been on Sherlock’s suggestion.

Even so, he couldn’t have lived there, even if Mrs Hudson was begging him to remain so she wouldn’t be alone once more.

The will wasn’t consulted to again until he was serious with Mary. She was shocked to know he hadn’t properly updated it since coming back from the war, furious, really, and demanded he did so immediately. They’d been together for a few months by then and thus he felt no woes about gifting all of his junk that would be left over to her - yet still some things to Harry, out of sentiment and hope that this time rehab would work out. After all, he had been thinking of proposing to Mary, so it made sense.

John had contacted a lawyer he’d known from working on Sherlock’s cases, a guy who seemed less of a prick than normal and had occasionally dallied down to the pub, although they hadn’t really had any heart to hearts. Just a wave from across the room would do it.

The lawyer had told him he was so sorry about the loss of Sherlock, and the assumption was there. John swallowed down the denial, the constant _I’m not gay_ that he normally echoed. It wasn’t worth it anymore, denying it. They’d both used swishy signatures, although John didn’t own a pen that was quite as fancy as the one he had, and then that was that.

Until it wasn’t.

Sherlock was back, and there had been no time to update the will to include him in it.

And then he was married and they’d had no time then because suddenly Mary was pregnant and then she was an ex-assassin and she’d _shot_ Sherlock but was having John’s baby.

He’d wanted to write Mary out of the will as soon as he learned she was the one who shot his best friend, the one who nearly killed him, but held out for Charles Augustus Magnussen, the case.

Held out for Rosie to be born, and then Mary had died, and then Sherlock nearly died _again_ , and then he had a secret sister. Never any time to do something as mundane and boring as update the will, no matter how important it pe"Do you have one?" John queries, and Sherlock shakes his head. It seems stupid, infuriating really, that he doesn’t have a will despite have nearly died so many times. 

"No, I assumed Mycroft had it sorted." Trust Sherlock to make his government official brother do all his personal legal work. Maybe Mycroft has hired him a secret PA that he doesn’t actually know about, and just assumes Mycroft himself does all the work.

"Well, you should check with him," John says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes in despair. Still a child, even if he does have his fatherly tendencies.

John stares through the legal garbage and realises he’ll have to rewrite the entire thing - it all means nothing now he has a kid. And people to live for.

"Well, get ready to raise Rosie if I die," John gets up and slaps the papers onto his laptop, in a reminder to do that tomorrow. Too exhausted tonight. He goes back to his whiskey promptly.

"What?" Sherlock is alarmed - he’s snapped his head over to look at John.

John smiles loosely. "You did know what godfather meant when you agreed to the role, right?" Sherlock bites his lip, then slowly nods.

John had been aware that Sherlock was tweeting during the ceremony - everyone was, especially when they’d heard Siri’s prompt apology when he’d slipped up. And he would have been concerned, for Mary’s sake at least, or one bit annoyed, except it was so quintessentially _Sherlock_ that he’d almost giggled alongside him.

But that was how Sherlock coped with things, avoiding them. That’s why he planned the wedding to avoid the fact that John was leaving, and that’s why he tweeted during that whole ceremony and then plunged himself into Culverton Smith.

Sherlock’s heart did not commit to something lightly, hence why unsolved cases bothered him so much. He didn’t commit to people lightly either - either hating them or caring deeply. Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, his brother. And John and Rosie, of course.

He’d known that Sherlock was fully committed to loving them, and would not be one for loving them halfway. John had moved in with him before he knew anything about the genius, and he’d moved in now because he loved Sherlock Holmes, Twitter obsession and all.

Yes, one could describe himself and Sherlock as lovers. Both of them loved each other deeply, dearly, and would do anything for each other and to protect Rosie. John would, and had, shot men for him in the past. Sherlock in turn had nearly died. So many times, and in so many ways. (For John, but that was left unsaid).

One could describe he and Sherlock as lovers if not for the minor mishap that they simply weren’t like that physically. Or emotionally really, no matter how many hugs were enjoyed. Surprisingly the two British, stiff-upper-lip men had become quite accustomed to the occasional hug. It hadn’t been an outcome that he’d expected but was one that John eventually learned to appreciate, when Sherlock reached out, arms wide, no words needed.

Of course John wanted to be with Sherlock - more so than he already was, more than "best friends". But he’ll suffice for this - living with him, and their daughter, because Rosie is fiercely _Sherlock’s_ too, even if it doesn’t say it yet on her papers.

Yes, documents, documents. He should give Mycroft a call in the morning, delight him with some paperwork to do. He’s fairly sure Uncle Myc wouldn’t mind if he was legitimately made Rosie’s uncle. Thinking on it, he’d probably had Sherlock’s adoption papers ready for months now.

They sit in front of the fire and John wonders what Sherlock is thinking as he places his tumbler onto the small coffee table as well, loose blue dressing gown swamping him easily. He’s still staring into the fire, and is clearly hesitating on picking up the poker to prod at it again. John does it instead.

But soon the yawning begins to creep in, and John pads over to the kitchen to turn off some of the lights, knowing Sherlock won’t protest. His sleep schedule too, has been regulated more.

It’s late, though, for them, and a father knows this ritual well. If he goes and settles into their shared room, Rosie will wake and struggle to return to slumber for at least an hour.

Mostly, he attempts to sneak in quietly and manages it, but John sometimes doesn’t want to disturb her and her peaceful dreaming, and so attempts to kip on the sofa. Like tonight. But he never ends up on the sofa, because Sherlock will notice as he comes and gets a glass of water from the kitchen and rub a hand against his shoulder gently just as he’s falling asleep.

"John," he croons carefully. The whiskey has gone down nicely and now his eyelids flutter. Sherlock looks unfairly beautiful for someone who’s just clambered out of bed. It must be what? Nearly midnight now? Sherlock repeats his name again in that melodic tone and John says, "Mmm?"

"You’ll mess up your neck and back sleeping there," Sherlock reminds him, as he does every time when he sleeps here, on the sofa.

He’s not trying to get Sherlock to invite him into his bed, but that’s what happens anyway. Almost every time, John stumbles blearily into Sherlock’s satin pillows and falls asleep, to wake up entangled by Sherlock.

The first time it had happened Sherlock had apologised profusely, staring at the ceiling, his arms and legs now released from their unconscious embrace. But John had chuckled and repeated those words. "It’s all fine."

And the whiskey headache hits properly about five minutes after he wakes up to the sound of Sherlock breathing on his chest and it’s oddly comforting, so he doesn’t move. Just stays there and thinks.

What if he could have this every day? What if he didn’t have to blearily make his way in at midnight? What if this was their room, not just Sherlock’s?

Too many questions with so many variables to answer, so maybe it’s a good thing that Sherlock wakes up and puts his bony chin decisively on his chest to look up at John.

He’s still unfairly handsome, but in that adorable morning way where he remains slightly dazed, his curls frizzy from friction and eyes thick with sleep. It makes John love him even more. Rosie, blissfully, seems to still be asleep and he’s in no hurry to move from this position.

"It’s 10am," Sherlock mumbles. John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock’s math clock, which has equations for the hours, and realises he’s right. _Damn_ , they really have slept in haven’t they? It’s lovely though, simply heaven.

"Hmm," John looks at him. "Eggs for breakfast?"

"Starving." And they both chuckle. This isn’t normal. They both know this isn’t how friends work, but it’s happening and that’s okay. And eventually Sherlock removes his head from John’s chest and they get up wearily and Sherlock wakes Rosie and John starts on the eggs because Sherlock still can’t cook to save his life and the day begins.

In the end it’s a subtle change that adds to one of many. No dramatic love confession, no secret boyfriend, no big argument. Sherlock seems to be contemplating with feelings and is all nervous and gangly so John just reached over in bed and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and that’s the end of it.

They love each other and soon enough John has to change his will once again, on a night with tumblers of whiskey, to change Sherlock’s status to "Husband"

Hopefully Mycroft will fast track that as quick as he did the adoption papers.


End file.
